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  “Why?”

  “I’m going to tie your hands behind your back with one of your boot laces,” Steve said.

  “That is not necessary.”

  “Do as I tell you, or I’ll shoot.”

  “No. And you will not shoot,” the Russian said, shouting to be heard over the roar of the MiGs orbiting them. “If you shoot me, those MiGs will strafe you. It is not necessary to tie my hands. I give you my word as a fellow officer and pilot that I will remain your prisoner until such time that you might surrender to me.”

  Steve stared at him. “And if I should say that’s not acceptable?”

  The Russian shrugged. “Then I suppose you will have to shoot me.”

  Steve, glaring at the Russian, finally shrugged and sighed. “Okay, Valdimir. I’ll accept your word.”

  The Russian nodded. “Thank you.”

  Both men glanced into the sky as the MiGs suddenly veered off, seeming to head back north.

  “What?” the Russian frowned as the MiGs left.

  “Look there!” Steve laughed, pointing to the south, where the sun was glinting off eight specks in the sky. “Those are BroadSwords, Vladimir. Your MiGs beat it because they didn’t want to be caught low. If the BroadSwords have made it here, the chopper can’t be far behind.” He laughed again as the droning whap-whap-whap of the whirlybird became audible and quickly increased in volume.

  The olive drab Sikorsky H-19 helicopter, looking like a pregnant dragonfly, appeared low in the eastern sky. Steve realized that the chopper, unsure of where he had gone down, had been slowly traveling the river, looking for survivors. Now, as the H-19’s pilot saw Steve and his prisoner, the chopper picked up speed, to hover about thirty feet above their heads. Far overhead, the BroadSwords orbited to provide top cover.

  “No place to land here,” Steve yelled to the Russian over the helicopter’s roaring motor. “They’ll have to lower a sling. Remember, you gave your word that you accept that you’re my prisoner.”

  The Russian nodded as a crewman standing in the H-19’s opened sliding door began lowering a sling.

  “You first, Vlaldimir.” The Russian slid his head and shoulders into the sling, and then said, “Ready.”

  “Go!” Steve yelled. He watched the chopper’s winch hoist the Russian into the air, and then waited anxiously, looking around for signs of the NKPA as the sling came down for him. When it did he holstered his gun, slid into the sling, and yelled, “Okay!”

  The winch hauled him up, and then the crewman was hauling him inside the chopper, which was already coming around to get the hell back to safety on the other side of the 38th parallel.

  The Russian was sitting on the floor in the corner of the noisy chopper. Another crewman was keeping him covered with a carbine.

  “He’s okay,” Steve shouted above the engine racket. “He’s my prisoner.”

  “If you say so, sir,” the crewman nodded. He lowered his carbine but still kept a wary eye on the Russian as Steve sat down next to him.

  “I’ve got to say you’re taking this pretty well, Vladimir.”

  The Russian smiled. “It will be all right for me. You will see.”

  Steve shrugged.

  “Can I ask you,” the Russian began, “why did you hunt me as you did?”

  “You shot down and killed my friend,” Steve replied, watching the man for his reaction.

  The Russian shrugged apologetically. “Forgive me, but I have shot down so many. Was he a BroadSword pilot?”

  “No. He flew an F-80. A Shooting Star.”

  “I am sorry… I don’t remember.”

  “You shot him down after he and I bounced you and a buddy over the Yesong River, near Sariwon, in September 1951.”

  The Russian’s dark eyes widened.

  Steve nodded. “I got your buddy. You got mine.”

  “That was you?” He laughed ruefully. “Even then I thought that you were a fine pilot. Now I know that for a fact.”

  “We’re okay now, sir,” the winch operator called out. He was still standing in the doorway, but had swung back the winch, replacing it with a fixed-mounted .30-caliber machine gun. “We’ve got the BroadSwords flying high cover, and we’ve just picked up an escort of Mustangs that’ll stick with us until we’re over friendly territory. We should have you back home in a half hour. The pilot’s radioing to find out what we’re supposed to do with your Russky prisoner, there. We’ve picked up some North Korean POWs in our time, but this is the first Russian we’ve ever had the privilege of delivering.”

  (Two)

  Chusan Airfield

  A burly-looking MP and several Air Force officers who Steve had never seen before were waiting at Chusan field as the chopper set down. The officers stepped up to Steve and saluted as he climbed down out of the chopper.

  “Major Gold? I’m Major Donald, from FEAFcom Intelligence,” the officer said.

  “Boy, you guys got here fast,” Steve laughed.

  “Yes, well,” Donald smiled thinly. “Is it true you have a Russian POW?”

  Steve nodded. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he glanced at the MP. “He’s in the copter.”

  The MP looked uncomfortable. “Sorry, sir,” he said as he relieved Steve of his .38, and then pulled Steve’s wrists behind his back and snapped on a pair of handcuffs.

  “These officers here are for the prisoner,” the MP continued. “Colonel Gleason sent me for you.”

  “You will stand at attention, Major Gold,” Colonel Claude Gleason, CO of the 44th said. He was seated behind his desk as Steve was escorted into the office by the MP.

  “Just let me get the circulation back into my wrists, Colonel,” Steve muttered, shaking his hands. “They just came off after being on for the last three hours.”

  Colonel Claude Gleason, CO of the 44th Squadron, glared at Steve from behind his desk. “You’ve got a lot of balls talking back to me, considering what you’ve done!” Gleason snapped. “You,” he addressed the MP. “Wait outside.”

  Steve looked around. The walls of Gleason’s office were lined with framed specimens from his entomological collection. Steve was surrounded by flattened, multicolored butterflies stuck to their pale blue blotter backgrounds by pins shoved through their wings.

  Fitting audience, Steve couldn’t help thinking. Don’t worry, you poor bastards. I’m about to join you. Gleason’s probably got a spot on the wall all reserved for me.

  “Colonel, may I speak frankly?”

  “You may not!” Gleason spat.

  “Well, I think I will anyway,” Steve said, too angry to be concerned about his insolence. “Sure I broke some rules, but I don’t deserve this sort of treatment.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” Gleason demanded. He was scarlet with anger. The flushed crimson went up past his ears to suffuse his balding scalp. His hands were trembling with fury as he whipped off his wire-rimmed spectacles and began to polish them with the tip of his dark blue necktie.

  “You didn’t need to send an MP for me,” Steve continued. “And you didn’t need to have him handcuff me. And then you didn’t need to keep me sitting outside your office for the past three hours with those goddamned cuffs on.”

  “Don’t you dare use profanity in this office—” Gleason began.

  “Goddamned cuffs!” Steve yelled out, cutting him off. “There! I had my say! Now you can do your worst, Colonel! I’m glad I did what I did! I swore I’d get Yalu Charlie to avenge my friend’s death and I did it. Now I don’t care what happens to me. Understand?”

  “Quite,” Gleason nodded. “Are you finished now, Major?”

  “I’m finished.”

  “‘Good. Now let me tell you something,” Gleason said coldly as he replaced his glasses. “First of all, I know all about what happened to you and your friend a year ago August. While you were waiting outside my office, I looked into the matter. Now then, I won’t even bring up the questionable circumstances which led to the engagement between your Shooting Stars, and those MiGs. Th
e bottom line is that your friend died in combat. Unfortunate? Yes. But when a country is at war, such things happen.”

  Steve opened his mouth to speak.

  “Shut up!” Gleason slammed the desktop with the flat of his hand. “Not another word out of you, or I swear I’ll call in the MP and have you recuffed and gagged.”

  Probably do it, too, Steve thought. He kept his mouth shut.

  “What you did today, Major Gold, was unaccountably irresponsible. Do you think that FEAFcom has posted China off-limits to aggravate you pilots? Do you think that FEAFcom is rooting for the commies? That it wants them to win, and that’s why we’ve agreed to allow them sanctuary in Manchuria?”

  I think I’ll assume that these are rhetorical questions, Steve decided.

  “Wake up and smell the coffee, Major Gold! We have nuclear weapons, and so do the Russians, but thankfully, neither side is insane enough to want to use them. Accordingly, what we have here in Korea by mutual agreement of both sides is a ‘limited’ war. That agreement came within a hairbreadth of being abrogated by you, thanks to your deciding to invade China and ambush a Soviet military advisor.”

  “Military advisor!” Steve exploded. “How can you call Yalu Charlie a fucking military advisor?”

  Gleason leapt to his feet. He came around from behind his desk, to stand toe to toe with Steve, except that the colonel was a half foot shorter, so he had to tilt back his head to stare into Steve’s eyes.

  “You want to know what’s been happening for the three hours I’ve kept you waiting, Major Gold?” Gleason’s breath thudded into Steve’s face. “I’ve been on the horn with the brass in Japan, who have been on the horn with the brass in Washington, which has been on the horn with Moscow. President Truman has shown great interest in this matter, as well.”

  “I said that I was prepared to accept the consequences of my actions,” Steve said quietly.

  “You are?” Gleason nodded, smiling coldly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I suppose you expect a court-martial?”

  Steve couldn’t resist. “I don’t expect a medal, sir.”

  Gleason, shaking his head, walked back to his desk and sat down in his chair. “It’s too bad you don’t expect that, you miserable son of a bitch, because a medal is just what you’re getting.”

  “Sir?” Steve asked, totally confused.

  “Sir?” Gleason mimicked, looking at Steve in disgust. “You know what you are, you son of a bitch? You are born lucky.”

  Oh, no, Steve thought, appalled. Pop’s somehow found out, used his influence to get me out of this. I can’t let him. Not this time. I played, and now I should have to pay. Otherwise I’ll never be able to look anyone in the eye again for the rest of my life. “Sir,” he began. “I—”

  “It so happens,” Gleason continued, ignoring him, “that your prisoner, Vladimir Sergeyevich Volkov, is the son of some VIP in Moscow. The Russians want him back. Desperately. They are so anxious to retrieve him, as a matter of fact, that they have hinted that upon his return they will persuade the North Koreans to be a bit more flexible about some of the logjams tying up the progress of the peace talks.”

  Steve bit hard on his lower lip in a desperate attempt to keep from smiling. He lost.

  “Yesss,” Gleason hissed from between clenched teeth. “It is-s-s funny in its way, is-s-s-n’t it?”

  “If you only knew, sir…”

  “To further cloud the issue, the press has somehow gotten hold of the story. You’re already being touted as a hero by the wire services. Since the news out of Korea has been downbeat for so long, the brass has decided that putting a heroic slant on what you’ve done may be just what the doctor ordered.” Gleason paused. “By all rights, you should be court-martialed and sentenced to ten years hard labor, but that’s not going to happen. Instead, you’re being turned into a hero.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Steve said brightly.

  Gleason looked like he was about to say something nasty, but he stopped and just shook his head. “Number one,” he said briskly, “you are being relieved of flight duty, effective immediately, and being sent back to the States. You’ve had more than your share of combat tours, and in any event, it’s too risky to allow you to remain in Korea. Imagine the propaganda value to the Reds if they managed to get hold of you.”

  “Number two, once you’re stateside, you will be receiving the Medal of Honor and a promotion in rank to—oh, how it galls me to say this—lieutenant colonel.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Get out of here, Major,” Gleason scowled. “And on your way out ask the MP if you can have those handcuffs as a souvenir.” Gleason looked wistful. “Of what might have been.”

  CHAPTER 19

  * * *

  (One)

  GAT

  Burbank

  31 December 1952

  Susan Greene was busy typing a report for Don Harrison. As usual, his writing style left a lot to be desired, so Susan was doing a little revision work as she typed; just smoothing out the sentences as she worked.

  The clacking of her typewriter’s keys was the only sound in the department. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but it was New Year’s Eve. Most of the designers had never come back from lunch, and that handful who had returned had left early.

  The department’s telephones had been pretty quiet during the morning, and absolutely mute all afternoon. The lack of interruptions had allowed Susan to become engrossed in her work, so that when the telephone on her desk began to ring, it startled her.

  “Mr. Harrison’s office,” she answered.

  “Yes, is he in?” a familiar woman’s voice began. “It’s…”

  “Yes, I know who it is,” Susan said, doing her best to sound pleasant and businesslike. Just a moment, please.” She buzzed Don on the intercom. “Your lady friend on line one….”

  “Thanks, Suzy,” Don said.

  Susan heard Don say, “Hi, honey. Is the champagne chilling?” And then she resolutely went back to her typing to drown out his voice.

  She’d thought that her first date with Don back in May had boded well. They’d had dinner at Donde’s, a romantic Italian seafood place in Santa Monica. Donde’s had been her choice because it had been her and Blaize’s favorite neighborhood place back when they were living in that little walk-up by the pier. Going there with Don on their first date had been an exorcism of sorts for Susan. She’d meant to exorcise Blaize from her immediate thoughts so that she could see this man Don Harrison with eyes unclouded by her late husband’s image.

  Of course she would always love Blaize. Just as she would always eat and breathe and sleep, loving Blaize was a condition of her existence. But she’d come to the conclusion that she could also love another man. Maybe this new love would not be as pure as her first. Maybe it would never penetrate into the marrow of her bones, but it would be a real love, in any case.

  So she’d taken Don Harrison to Donde’s, and that first night, over pasta with shrimp and white wine, she’d talked about her husband the English test pilot, the RAF fighter ace, the war hero posthumously awarded his own country’s Victoria Cross, and a Distinguished Flying Cross from the United States.

  Don was a good listener. He asked the right questions to keep her talking, and pretty soon they were laughing together over the latest antics of her ten-year-old son, and then, miraculously, the talk about the past was exhausted, and there she was, sitting across from a man and talking to him about herself, and enjoying it.

  Susan realized that she’d been typing the same line over and over again, and quit in disgust. Her mind was no longer on her work. The walls of Don’s office were so thin, and the department was so quiet. She could clearly hear his laughter, even if his words did remain an unintelligible murmur.

  Thinking back on that first date at Donde’s, she now supposed that it had been inevitable and probably for the best that she’d had too much wine and let slip who her parents were.

  Don had l
aughed and laughed. He’d said that he didn’t mind dating the boss’s daughter, and then he’d asked if she and Robert might like to go for a drive along the shore the following Sunday afternoon.

  Maybe that’s the problem: that I let my son intrude on the relationship too soon. Susan now brooded. Or maybe the fact that I’m the boss’s daughter matters to Don, after all.

  Or maybe she had just wanted this relationship too much; queered it somehow by pushing too hard. Don was a bit too much the repressed gentleman for that (as Blaize had been, but without Blaize’s wildly romantic streak).

  Whatever the reason, or reasons, their burgeoning romantic relationship was soon stalled. Susan had thought that maybe she could get things back on track, but then this woman from out of Don’s past had called. Evidently this Linda Forrest knew just how to go about ensnaring a man.

  Or maybe the chemistry was just right between them? Susan thought. But what’s the point of wondering on the why of it? Some people hit it off together and others don’t, and that’s that.

  She tried her best to ignore Don’s laughter as he chatted with his new flame. For the past few weeks the two lovebirds had been giggling on the telephone together half a dozen times a day.

  She quickly resumed typing as she heard Don hang up the telephone. A few moments later he came out of his office wearing his hat and carrying his briefcase.

  “Suzy,” he scolded her good-naturedly. “It’s New Year’s Eve, for Godsakes—”

  “I just want to finish this report, Don,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on her typewriter.

  “Don’t you have plans for this evening?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said evenly, glancing up at him. “I have a date.” With my son, she added silently.

  “Good!” he nodded.

  He didn’t seem the least bit jealous. It was clearly hopeless, and what did she care? Leave him to Linda Forrest and good riddance, she thought. He was losing his hair anyway.

  “I want you to go home early, and that’s an order, got it?”

  “Got it,” she smiled sweetly.